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So why did the thought of never calling him again leave me with an ache in my gut?
I was definitely the most screwed-up human in all existence.
My thoughts continued to churn and whirl in similar lines. I didn’t remember falling asleep, but when my cell phone rang, I jerked out of something that was awfully similar to sleep.
I blinked away the scuzz in my eyes and managed to make out that it was the Beaulac dispatch number. I fumbled for the answer button. “Gillian here,” I croaked. I glanced over at the clock. Five a.m. Gah. If I had slept, it wasn’t for more than an hour or so.
“Detective Gillian, this is Corporal Powers in the radio room. Mandeville PD called. They found your business card at the condo of Elena Sharp.”
I sat up. “Why were they at her condo? What happened?”
“She’s dead. Apparent suicide. Want me to text you the contact info?”
“Yeah. Thanks,” I said, trying to shake off the numb shock. Too convenient. Too much coincidence. It was all connected somehow. Suicide, my ass, I thought grimly.
ABOUT AN HOUR later I pulled into the parking lot of Elena Sharp’s complex. The detective I’d spoken to, Robert Fourcade, had been fairly accommodating. And, after I’d given him a quick rundown of the case surrounding Elena’s husband’s death, he had agreed to allow me into the scene.
I pulled my badge out and showed it to the officer manning the door. “I’m Detective Gillian, from Beaulac PD. Detective Fourcade’s expecting me.”
The officer nodded as if he’d known I’d be showing up. “Right, you can go on in.”
I stepped in, feeling a strange déjà vu, with crime scene superimposed over it. A couple of the officers inside gave me “who the hell is this” looks, but a burly detective with dark-red hair stepped my way.
“You must be Detective Gillian,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Rob Fourcade.”
I shook his hand. “Call me Kara. Thanks for allowing me to come check out the scene.”
He shrugged. “I got no problem with it, but there’s nothing to indicate anything other than a suicide.”
Yeah, well, I could see and feel things Detective Fourcade couldn’t. I gave him an answering shrug and smiled. “But you understand why I wanted to check it out, especially since her husband was murdered.”
“Paperwork. Loose ends. I know the drill.” I could tell that he felt that I was wasting my time driving all the way down here. He jerked his head toward a back bedroom. “She’s in there.”
“I appreciate it.” I headed down the hallway. I hadn’t seen this part of the condo on my earlier visit. The walls were bare; the only decorative touch was an elegant vase with dried flowers sitting on a table against the wall.
The bedroom was more of the same. Solid, sturdy, and beautiful furniture that looked like it would last through an apocalypse. And lying across the expensive bedspread was Elena Sharp, quite clearly dead. I took in the sight of the pill bottles on the nightstand, then stepped closer to take a more thorough look at Elena.
I shuddered to a stop as I neared the bed and felt the body. I sucked in my breath, head spinning. The gaping lack of essence was so profound that I literally had to grab the bedpost to steady myself. This was far worse than Brian Roth and Davis Sharp. Worse even than the Galloways. I could feel the rending, the violence where this essence had been savagely ripped away while she was still alive. My fingers dug into the bedpost, and I fought to not puke.
“You all right?”
I hadn’t realized that Fourcade had followed me into the bedroom. I straightened, taking deep breaths to try to regain something resembling composure. “Yeah, I’m … just getting over some food poisoning.”
He frowned and nodded, but I could see the faint derision in his eyes. He thought that I was squicking at the sight of a corpse. If he only knew how many corpses I’d seen in the past six months …
“I don’t want to rush you, but the coroner’s office is here. As soon as you’re done, they’re going to bag her up.”
“Sure,” I said as I peered into the dead woman’s face. There was nothing to indicate that she’d died in the kind of arcane violence that I could feel. No look of horror etched into her features, no arcane sigils traced upon her body in blood, nothing else that would be there if this had been a scene in a movie.
“No forced entry,” Fourcade continued, sounding a bit bored. “No signs of struggle. I guess this helps tie up your other case.”
I looked at him blankly. “How?”
He waved a hand toward the pill bottles, and now I saw that there was a sheet of paper beneath them. “Note. Confession. It’s why I called you,” he said, as if explaining it to a three-year-old.
My jaw tightened, but I managed to keep my retort in check. I stepped over to the nightstand and read the note.
I cheated on my husband, then killed him. I couldn’t take the shame of a divorce. Now I can’t live without him, can’t live with the guilt.
